Delicate
by lena1987
Summary: Complete. All Hermione wanted to do was discover the teasing, delicious scent worn by her colleague, Severus Snape. But the unravelling box that is this sensual man becomes an obsession and she cannot stop, nor does she want to. A Christmas story of love and perfume. AU. M for light language.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** I do not own these characters and you're lucky for that, because this is one big bag of Christmas happiness and no one has died except the reptile. Hooray. Nothing in this is supported by canon, _least of all the twisting of Amortentia to suit my own needs._

 **Rating:** M, though only to be careful.

 **A/N:** JKR once said that Severus Snape smells like 'bitterness and old shoes'. I'm out to prove her wrong. Thank you to the lovely gorgeous lady who has taken up the mantel of being my Hermione for this particular story, HatakeHinata, as I could not have pinned down all of these delicious scents without her help. Ultimately this is her Christmas gift for being so kind and supportive when I began to dip my toes into this world. This story is complete in seven short parts. Will be wrapped up before Christmas Eve. It is very much an AU.

 _The absolutely fabulous Banglabou set everything aside to beta this for me_ _. She turned it into something that even Snape's red quill would accept! Any mistakes are from my own tinkering._

* * *

 **Delicate**

 **Chapter One**

It's not that we're scared

It's just that it's delicate.

 _Damien Rice_

* * *

 **Sunday**

I have done a terrible thing.

Oh all right, it wasn't _that_ bad.

But in the overall scheme of things, it is a dreadful mistake; I should have known better… I should _know_ better. It is a Pandora's box of temptation.

But I…

The temptation was far too great.

The ingredients were there, just waiting to be chopped, diced, sliced, grated and powdered. I had a free afternoon – _when am I ever not free on the weekends these days?_ – and I did it.

The inspiration for my interest came on Friday. It was so sudden, like one of those Japanese trains on the news the other night. Though, like the train, it's probably been heading towards me for a while and I, as per usual, have been oblivious.

I was standing at the cauldron, examining the sea-green coloured liquid as I stirred. I have not yet gotten over the habit of counting under my breath; at least, that is how I defend myself to the man that shares the laboratory. Truthfully, it makes brewing a musical experience. Like a song, I count and stir, slice and pour. This is the beauty of potions – the process of making them, of creating, of crafting. It is a subtle beauty; just a light caress to the soul but it is a balm all the same.

There is one other man who feels this way and he works at the station beside mine. He is an intriguing man – slightly hunched and terribly underfed (by his own choosing these days), long black hair that stays lank from the steam, rather like mine except my mane frizzes instead. His nose is an exaggerated gift; hooked and long, it can detect an ingredient that I have gone to large lengths to hide.

Nothing escapes him.

He is a sensual man; would anyone ever believe it? Possibly not, given his teeth have yet to be fixed, he is paler than any man I have ever seen and he has a penchant for awkwardness. But he is – in a beautiful, understated way.

His coat, for example. He clothes himself in the finest wool, the black so deep that it is no longer a colour – no, it exists as a _darkness_ all on its own. Fascinating to the eye, and pleasing to touch. It is rare that I _do_ touch it, but just on the odd occasion… his sleeve brushes against my bare arm, or the matching straight cut trousers graze my calf when I dare to wear Muggle skirts instead of the 'proper attire' of robes.

This man knows _all about_ what it is to indulge the flesh.

And his hands! His hands! Even as I write this in this diary that I shall die before revealing to my subject of study, I can look up and imagine his hands. So perfect, with fingers so long and delicate. And here is the deepest secret (the root of the root, bud of the bud and all that): he knows it.

I have caught him many times massaging a salve of his own making into his hands. Morning and night, twice a day without fail. He sighs with the pleasure of it, for I tried it once – it warms and sinks into the skin, soothing a hard day's work and returning the calloused digits back to appendages of silk. I do not use his salve. He already thinks me rough around the edges, almost bordering on uncouth. I like that.

And then there are his boots. Dragon hide boots are almost run of the mill these days; it seems to be a fashion where young men and 'alternative' witches don them and strut down the street. I bet he's their influence, too – the dark wizard who is so often splashed across gossip columns because he gave the middle finger to Rita Skeeter once again. We have one such moving picture framed in the lab; to say it satisfies me is to make a gross understatement.

But the dragon hide boots of Severus Snape are different to the boots on the street. They are not black – oh no, not entirely. They shine, and when the sun happens to catch the scales just so, there are glints of red and gold that make them look _alive._ As if he walks in time with the great beast's wings.

All of this – this overwhelming evidence – is not what made me spend my weekend brewing Amortentia, a controlled substance because of the danger and soul-consuming obsession it can cause.

It wasn't his fine clothing or his hands, nor was it his boots.

No; none of that.

God help me.

It was his smell.

As I write, I close my eyes and conjure the scene where I stood so innocently, brewing so carefully, so surely.

He did not surprise me when he stood and looked at the concoction from over my shoulder. I have learnt the faint sounds that his boots make when he walks across the lab to my station – so subtle and quiet, but I know them all the same.

"A fine attempt," he drawled quietly. He was so close that his breath ghosted over the back of my neck.

None of this is different, mind you. It only came a few moments later…

"You know, I'm shocked that you still have such a frightful reputation," I replied, grinning down at the cauldron. "I should send an anonymous tip to Skeeter – tell her all about how you encourage and assist your co-worker to be the best that she could possibly be."

"She'd keel over."

"Oh, I don't know about that," I said, and turned my head.

There.

That.

It was _innocent –_ truly, we have been shooting words back and forth for a year now in the private lab that makes up the second floor of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. Not that we work for the twins – no, not officially. The research company we work for is a top of the line consultancy firm. It just happens to be run by two identical red haired men who think philanthropic work should be kept secret and not advertised in their store below.

When I turned my head, I saw his lips out of the corner of my eye. Those thin, sometimes chapped lips that form words that even I have to look up in the dictionary at times.

I have seen those lips before.

It wasn't that.

It was his _scent._

There was something new about him; something tantalising. I caught a brief teasing note of it when I breathed in, and I just could not put my finger on it, but it was…

"Oh," I sighed, feeling my eyelids flutter unnaturally. I felt faint. "What is _that?_ "

What is it? I struggled to pin it down. Something dark, something fresh… but I've been out of the scent game for years. His new cologne, I guessed. It was _delicious._ I wanted to lick his skin, to taste what was driving me mad.

"What is what?" he asked silkily, taking one tiny step back. I swivelled around to face him fully, letting my eyes run up and down his figure.

"There's something…"

And then I stopped.

My mouth closed with an audible click, and his dangerous black eyes gleamed before he cocked one eyebrow – _an expression as enticing as sex itself_ – before moving away again.

"I don't know what you're going on about, Granger. Are you quite all right?"

Oh. Right.

We're playing it like that, are we?

I swallowed and nodded, and when he smirked and moved away, back to his station on the other side of the room, the scent left as quickly as it appeared.

I was hooked.

X

Now, I bottle the potion. I have only made a little bit… just a small amount, really. If anyone knew, I think I'd get off with a fine instead of a temporary revoke of my brewing license. Turns out the new Ministry doesn't like love potions. Fair enough.

My heart is thudding, and for a moment I think I can hear waves crashing onto the beach. But I am in my tiny little flat on the top floor of an old building in Diagon Alley, and there are no oceans out of my window. It is the blood, I realise suddenly; blood is roaring in my ears because of what I am about to do.

This is wrong.

This is terribly wrong.

If anyone were to find out…

But I can't _not._

I do it quickly, like an addict hoping to hide their deepest, sinful desires.

I rip the cap away from the vial. I'm going to be very, very good – I won't drink it; oh no. I'm not stupid. All I want to do is _smell_ it.

I breathe in the scent.

I breathe it in again.

And again.

I set the vial down.

"What is _that?_ "


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Whenever you fall,

You can put your shoes under my bed.

 _Paul Kelly_

* * *

 **Monday**

I enter the laboratory in a whirl of limbs and sprawling, messy curls. It is two minutes to nine. The black-haired man who put me in this mess to begin with is already working diligently at his station. He doesn't even look up to see me stumble inside, shivering and rubbing my freezing hands together. There is an uncomfortable wetness on my head and when I bend over and shake my hair out, the flakes of snow fall onto the floor and melt.

With a flip that will give me a headache, I straighten up and catch him staring. His hand is extended in the air, as if he might touch the wild knots that make up my hair. I smile guiltily. "Sorry."

"For being late?" His response is drawled, silk-like.

"No. For bringing the snow in."

He chuckles and directs his gaze back to his chopping board. It is always enjoyable to watch him work – not only are his hands moving in the methodical preparations for whatever potion he is beginning work on today, but there are knives hovering beside him as his mind wandlessly controls them in such an exacting way that they can chop as well as his own fingers can. Two sets of hands for the price of one, is what the twins often say when they come in to check up on us.

"Are you going to work at all today?" he says, and I realise that I have been standing on the spot and staring at him for a good minute or two.

"Oh." My face burns and I walk to my own bench, discarding my overcoat, scarf, hat and gloves as he pauses to flick a warming charm my way. I smile in thanks and he looks quickly away.

He is on edge.

I am on edge.

I have a secret today.

It's hidden in the pocket of my trousers.

When I am sure that he won't look, I fumble around in the pocket and touch the small vial. It seems so small and innocent that I wonder how people even get addicted in the first place. Surely no one is fooled by this tiny vial? I'm better than that.

I take a little whiff and shove it back into my pocket. Peace descends, as well as a wave of confusion. I still cannot figure out just what exactly I am supposed to smell. It's too complicated. It doesn't resemble the scent that it was during school. Or if it does, there have been notes added that make it too difficult to discern anything singular. Severus would know, but he's the one that got me into this business in the first place. I'm not bloody well asking him.

"Nice day out," he comments blandly about an hour into it.

"No, it's not."

Really, it's not. There is a week to go until Christmas Eve, which in this part of the country translates into snow, snow, snow, sludge, rain, snow, cold, snow. I love Christmas and all it entails, and from Christmas Eve until the next night, I love snow.

But not before. It seeps into my very bones – for all of his anaemic qualities, Severus handles the cold far better than I do. I'm too warm blooded.

"Don't be a pessimist."

"I will be if I want to," I say childishly, offering him a little pout. He rolls his eyes and pushes up his sleeves. As usual, I lean back to catch a glimpse of his tattoos. He has two: one meant, one not. I like them both. Very, very much.

There is the Dark Mark of course, the faded grey snake that looks a bit stupid now. Like he got pissed one night then drew on himself with a magic marker. A bit unkind, I know, but he feels the same way. But still, I like it. I like what the greyness represents. It is a daily reminder for me, and who would reject seeing the evidence that the old reptile is dead? Not me.

The other is a small mark on the inside of his opposite wrist. Severus used to cast a notice-me-not charm on it when I first started working with him. After a while I grew curious as to why my eyes would always avert themselves when he'd really get into the swing of things and push his sleeves up.

I don't know what it means. He's never told me, which I suppose is fair enough. It's a word in a language I haven't mastered yet – I know the alphabet well enough, but the curved lines and dots that make up written Arabic also lend themselves to Farsi and Urdu and so I'm often stumped.

But this, I also like.

"What are you working on today?" I ask, a few minutes before we are due to have a break for morning tea.

"Mm. The old healing draught again." This is the one that he has been tinkering with for a few months, on and off. He's designed it for survivors of the war; it is a fickle potion, as he wants it to _sense_ the particular ailments of the patient, and thus it must also be charmed. Ideally, it will ease after-effects of the _cruciatus,_ temper the bad headaches that come with having one's memory tampered with and nip panic attacks in the bud. He has three that he is currently researching: one for children, one for women and one for men. All have subtle differences that are almost beautiful in their complexity.

"And you?" he asks softly, his eyes darting between me and his work. I am flattered by his attention; it isn't often that Severus breaks his concentration.

"The same as always."

"You've a bleeding heart," he says. There is no bite to it.

"Yes, well," I say breezily, tossing my hair in a gesture of habit that I make when I'm rankled. "It's important."

His response comes readily and it is so quiet that I turn to face him. "I know."

"Here now," I tease him, casting a stasis charm on the bubbling cauldron as I sidle over to his bench and perch against the edge. "What's this? The panther baiting the lamb?"

"No," he sniffs. "Even a cynic such as I can comprehend that what you're doing is important."

Severus takes care of our human population in Magical Britain, while I have set my far-reaching sights on those not of our race that suffered during the war. It is exceedingly difficult. There are centaurs missing limbs and house elves who have lost their sight or hearing. These are just the simplest of maladies. I have had some successes and many failures, but I am thankful that the successes have been wonderful.

"I was only jesting," I say carefully. "You know I would have never gotten anywhere without your help."

Severus sets the knife down and a wave of his wand has a timer produced in the air. The stirring rod is moving around in a perfect counterclockwise circle, which it will do for another five minutes. He is free for a cuppa.

"I could say the same," he remarks. "Tea?"

I ponder the question. "Hmm." Tilting my head, I narrow my eyes. "I think I might have…coffee!"

His face splits into a grin. His smile is, as always, innocently charming, though he'd probably try to get me fired if I said it to his face. "You're barmy."

"Say that again, would you?"

He offers me his arm to walk into the next room where there are two chairs, hundreds of tomes, a fire and a coffee table. "Barmy."

I love how his voice slides over vowels. It's delectable – like chocolate melting in my mouth. Sometimes it can be dark, 99 percentage. Other times the sweetness is like the smoothest of whites, in those tiny little button shapes that melt down to fit inside a biscuit. I'm so busy thinking of this that I forget to try and sneak in a sniff of his scent and by the time we sit down for his tea and my coffee, I'm annoyed at myself for missing the chance.

"Something bothering you?"

"No-ooo," I say grumpily. "I'm just… in a bit of a bind."

"Oh? How so? Everything all right with your parents?"

"Hmm, what? Oh. Yes, yes, they're fine. Right as rain. Can't feel a thing for me but they're alive." I give a little sarcastic titter and Severus winces. I hold up a hand. "Really, it's not that. I'm just doing a bit of… private research."

I've got him now.

He leans forward and brushes a stray lock of hair impatiently away from his eyes. "Explain."

"I don't think I will," I decline, letting my smile widen into a grin. Honestly, if he's going to put on tantalising cologne and not tell me about it, then I'm not going to tell him that I'm sniffing Amortentia during his smoke break.

There is a darkness in his eyes that makes me lick my lips. He's always been a striking man, a beautiful man, but I'm so haphazard that I've often assumed that he was out of my reach. He would consume me, I think. His passion for the little things is all-encompassing. Surely he would not want an awkward young woman to stroll into his den? His eyes flicker down to my mouth then back, staying on my lips just long enough for me to suspect that he _wants_ me to see him having a good look.

Interesting.

"You should tell me what you're working on," he presses.

"Why?"

"I could help…"

"With this? No. It's…"

"It's…?" He has on this playful smile that should be outlawed. I used to think that I was too intelligent to use the word 'sexy' – one weekend I even armed myself with a list of synonyms to memorise so that I'd be able to say lovely words like seductive, desirable or _alluring_ instead. I do like language. But this… this look… it really _is_ sexy. Is he…

Is he flirting?

With _me?_

I blush. "It's private."

At once he nods slowly and eases himself back into the chair, the languid pose perfected by his long legs stretching out in front of him. "Private," he repeats sceptically.

"Yes."

"Hmm."

"What?"

"Oh, nothing."

This little dance is delightful. I shred a scone and pop a bit into my mouth. "One would think you're curious about what I'm doing in my spare time."

He is smouldering now. This isn't very fair at all. My knees are weak. I want a Calming Draught and I want it now. Either that or a quick sneak into the loo to touch myself so he doesn't realise that I'm hot and bothered because of _him._ Good grief.

I had hoped that he might rumble something like, 'And if I am interested…?' but he doesn't. Instead he only steeples his fingers and stares at me for long enough to make me fidget in my seat. Eventually he looks away and lets his hair hide his face, a curtain of black ink. I want to tuck the locks behind his ear, to see the expression that he is hiding from me.

I take a sip of coffee instead.

"Have you any plans for Christmas?" I try, keeping my voice light.

"No," he says in a small voice.

"Me neither."

"Right."

I try another tactic. "Are you coming to the party on Christmas Eve? At Grimmauld Place?"

"All of the Order's going to be there," he mutters, finally starting work on his cup of tea. I grimace and shrug.

"Yeah. Unavoidable, really. You know how Harry is around holidays." He has to surround himself with as many people as he can. Harry feeds off of happiness these days. I'm a wallflower at these events but I'll go. Severus went once or twice in the first years after the war, but I haven't seen him at the last three.

"I know. I might."

"Say yes," I urge him. "We'll go together."

At once he scowls. I've said the wrong thing; I always do. He thinks he's got an acerbic tongue but I'm no better, except I put my foot in it and assume things, blurting them out without screening them first. I'm comfortable around him, that's why, and I don't want to tip-toe. But I forget that he _wants_ me to do just that. He doesn't like that I know him well enough now to understand that he's really just incredibly shit at social interaction.

Takes one to know one.

"I don't need hand-holding," he sneers and stands up, ignoring the steaming cup of tea.

I'm angry; I shouldn't be, but it's infuriating all the same. "Whatever."

He gives me an unreadable look then stalks off into the laboratory so fast that the air rushes around him as he leaves.

I suck in a breath of surprise and then gasp –

That!

What is it?

There's something there. I've caught it.

I breathe in again, deeply and with my tongue out to taste the air.

It is one simple note. Like an essential oil, except this is different. This is a beautiful smell. A favourite of mine. So simple and so full of promise. It's different than it was on Friday, that much I know. This is new.

But why…? I've never heard of a cologne like this.

Severus smells like new parchment.

That's… curious.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

But in the 'he said', 'she said',

Sometimes there's some poetry.

 _Ani DiFranco_

* * *

 **Tuesday**

"Do you want a biscuit?"

"No."

"Why not? Look. The middle bit melts. Look at it."

"I'm trying to watch my figure. You know, before Christmas and all of the pudding."

"You're a stick insect, Granger. What is there to watch?"

"Well, thanks." I am tempted to stick my tongue out at him. "You're one to talk." Am I really a stick insect? I look down at my breasts. Not half bad. I catch Severus looking too when my gaze meanders back to his and I glower.

Severus waves the biscuit in my face. "Hence the snack."

That gets my attention. "Are you trying to put on weight?" I mean, I understand _why,_ he's a bit of a wraith really, but I do… I do like him. As he is.

He scrunches his face up and blushes. "I might be. I'm a bit… _gangly._ "

"Says who? I've always thought that that was your natural figure. Maybe you've just got a good metabolism."

We are in the tea room, waiting for Fred and George to come up for their weekly check-in. I love Tuesdays. The twins can never be bothered with really sticking their noses in, so instead we all have a cuppa and then Severus and I get out early. This is particularly useful today as I have some last minute gifts to buy. Oh, all right – I have _all_ of my gifts to buy.

Severus doesn't comment on my offhand observation, though he does offer a little elegant roll of his shoulders. The flames are licking the wood in the fireplace; it's all quite cosy. I like this – sitting around with him, talking about everything and nothing. It's peaceful.

The amusing thing is, is that all I have at home is quiet. It's punctured by Floo calls every now and then, and Ron and Harry think it's absolutely hilarious to look in on me when they're on one of their Friday night pub crawls, but really it's just… silent. But the silence with Severus is different. It carries a weight to it; something nice, something that feels like I've crawled under a big fluffy blanket with a naughty glass of wine.

Somehow, I have enough courage to say, "I think you look nice."

He is flabbergasted. I know it from the way that he rears back in his chair and curls his lip. He looks like a deer caught in the headlights. "What? You do?"

I fumble around for some words. "Um. Yes?"

We both watch the fire for a long moment. Neither of us wants to deal with the elephant charging around the room but eventually Severus swallows and says, " _Why?_ "

Oh. I haven't been expecting this question. Then again, I wasn't expecting that I would confess that I do quite like his physical appearance. Well, it could have been an awful lot worse. I could have said that he really should just take me on the lab table but I didn't, did I?

"I just do," I decide on saying. It might even win a literary prize: 'I just do'. Great. He rolls his eyes and I spread my hands with a harried smile. "Really! I just do. You're lovely. Just as you are."

"Just as I am?" he repeats, casting a critical eye over himself. I snatch the chance to do the same and for once I can allow my eyes to really _look_ at the lines of his body; his frock coat that I want to wrap around myself; the long and sinewy legs that would propel powerful thrusts into my body; his graceful hands that surely will arouse me to tears. He is built like a greyhound, like a racehorse. All skin and muscle, a little bit of bone. He might not think this of me, but underneath all of my layers I am far fleshier than him, and I think we might just make a well-matched pair. If ever we were to see each other naked, of course. Otherwise we're just our normal selves: colleagues. Which is a bit boring if we really could be naked.

"Y-ee-s," I draw out. His face is so red that I could light a match beside it and set it aflame. "Just as you are."

"Right."

This is Severus' standard way of avoiding a question/topic/whatever makes him clam up. There is a silence in the room as he digests what I have said, and I tap my fingers on the arm of my chair impatiently. Fred and George should be here soon. I look at the door when I hear their loud, thumping footsteps jogging up the stairs to our lab. But just before they burst in through the door, Severus clears his throat.

"I do, too, you know."

"You do what?"

"Like you." I can't see his face; it's completely hidden by his hair. It's just as well, as I'm about to shriek from welcome surprise but then he says, "Your figure, I mean. There's nothing wrong with it. I like it. Just as you are."

When the twins throw themselves into the room with all of the exuberance that comes with being rich and surviving a war, they comment on my tied tongue and shaking hands but I can't explain it. Not when Severus lifts his head and looks at me like he sees into my very soul, as if he has stripped away the sealer and has uncovered me.

The meeting doesn't long. It never does. We all rise and stand about, chatting mindlessly about Christmas and gifts and parties. Severus is still unsure about going to Grimmauld Place. The twins press him a bit, tug this way and that, but he stands firm on the dithering line between a 'yes' and a 'no'.

"Are you going with anyone, 'Mione?" Fred asks, waggling his ginger eyebrows. "What about that fellow from last year?"

I blush and stare at my shoes, aware of Severus' piercing stare. "Oh, no. He was a bit of a tosser. I'm not… I'm not going with anyone."

"Want me to set you up with someone?" George offers as we all shuffle to the door. "There's a nice bloke who's started managing our new store in Dublin. Might be a go-er."

"I, ah…" I tuck a curl behind my ear and sneak a look at Severus. He's searching in his pockets for something that must be vitally important because he doesn't even look up. "No, no. I'll be right. Thanks anyway."

"Worth a try," Fred says. "And what about you, Severus? You sure you won't come?"

There's no offer to fix him up – they tried that once and it backfired so badly that Severus hexed their arses off for a week. Literally. I haven't forgotten the sight of their jeans – I'd always thought that the twins had rather flat bottoms, but I was proven wrong when confronted with the sight of a truly non-existent backside. Poor sods.

Severus takes a while to answer and by the time he does, all four of us are at the bottom of the stairs and about to head into the freezing afternoon. He'll Apparate back to his townhouse in Cokeworth that's all hip and new now, and I'll do my shopping then head back to my tiny flat. The twins will be back in the shop; for all of their fun and games, they work harder than we do which is saying something.

"Well?" Fred prods, elbowing George with a conspiratorial grin. "Are you coming to the party or what?"

"Oh, boys," I chastise, "he said he won't! Leave off."

At once Severus finds his voice and says, "No. I might… I might come after all." He's looking at me like I have the answer to an unspoken question but I don't quite follow it. "I'll come."

"Great!"

"Good on you!"

The twins leave us staring at each other on the street. The ground is caked with snow and soon enough my teeth start chattering but they stop with a jolt when Severus looks away then back to me, resolve tightening his features. He reaches towards me – I've forgotten how to breathe – and grabs onto my scarf with a harrumph. Before I know it, he's unwrapped it and then he does it up again, twisting it around my neck tightly and arranging it so it covers the lower half of my face.

"Better?" He presses his palms to the scarf on either side; he would've touched my neck if it weren't for the long red piece of wool.

"Much," I say breathlessly, nodding when he gives just the smallest hint of a smile.

"Right," he says. "Well… see you tomorrow."

"Yes," I confirm. "Tomorrow."

He turns on his heel after a brief wave of his hand and I stand stock still, realising that today he smells like… I hurry after him and call out.

"Wait, wait!" I almost crash into him when he stops suddenly, but I'm too distracted by the soft sweet scent of cloves that is clinging to his cloak. "What-what," I stammer. I love the smell. One of my favourites, it always transports me to heat and humidity and sticky, languid sex. I don't smoke; he does, a relic from the stress of war, but it's not often that one can smell it on him. He's developed these sticks that carry no scent at all; a good thing, given the musky smell of proper tobacco makes me gag. But this is different. I can only assume it's from his cigarettes – why else would he smell of cloves?

Brazenly, I lean forward and grab a bit of the excess black material and bring it to my nose. I breathe in and close my eyes with a little moan of pleasure. When I can speak, I open my eyes to look at him, not quite understanding his expression. "You've changed your cigarettes," I comment. "You haven't done that before."

He gives a small shake of his head and looks past me, his eyes searching the street. When he answers, his black eyes are gleaming with something that I can't quite place. "No, I haven't. You're accosting me."

I laugh and let go of his cloak. "I'm not sorry. I could've sworn that I…" I try and grab a bit of the black wool again but he inches away. Mortified, I take a long step back and wince. "I really am sorry. That was ridiculous. I won't do it again."

I offer him a half-hearted goodbye and hurry away, not wanting to wait and listen to him say something snarky that'll probably make me cry into my wine tonight.

It is only hours later when I dump my shopping at my ankles and head to the fridge to dish out some food for Crooks that I am puzzled – because the look on his face wasn't… It wasn't what I thought it was…

He was satisfied.


	4. Chapter 4

**_A/N:_** _See the HG/SS one-shot 'One Thousand and One Nights' if you like the picture Hermione paints towards the end of this chapter. As this story has no smut, feel free to use that as a substitute ;-)_

* * *

 **Chapter 4**

This is the time that I'll come running.

Straight to you, for I am captured.

 _Nick Cave_

* * *

 **Wednesday**

I should stop using the Amortentia. Not that I want to, but it's interfering with my senses. Everywhere I go, I smell this delectable, phantom smell. It's beautiful; it's everything I want.

But I don't smell it on Severus. I'm sure that I don't. He doesn't smell like the alluring combination that the potion gives me; instead the scents that cling to him are rich, singular. I cannot understand it. If not Severus… then who else would I smell?

I breathe in deeply to try again.

That can't be right…

I chance a look at Severus from over my shoulder. Can I walk past again? Will he catch on if I give it another go? This man has me running in circles.

"What are you looking at?"

Bugger.

"Nothing," I say in an attempt to evade him. When he turns back to his work, unperturbed, I watch him out of the corner of my eye. We are researching today – actual page turning, quill scratching research. It's not often that both of us are working in a similar way, given our different current aims, and I half want him to get up and start brewing so I can try and work out what delectable scent he's wearing today.

I've got him pegged – oh yes, I have. He has something planned, some grand gesture, and if it's not directed at me then I'll bloody well quit because I don't think I can stand the idea of him wearing these beautiful smells for another woman.

There, I've said it.

I don't want him to be with another woman.

When did I want him to be with _me?_ Always, now that I really think about it. I gravitate towards him, orbit around him unintentionally, as if my body knows what my rational mind does not.

It's always stayed just under the surface, more so due to our age difference. And not because it bothers me – it doesn't. He's too shy, too quiet, for twenty years to create a divide between us. But next to him, I am like a gust of wind that could blow him over; I'm too bright, too loud, too frazzled.

If there is a side of him that could command me with only one word, I haven't seen it. He is beautifully awkward; I want to bring him out of his self-crafted shell. And yet, I also wish to simply _be_ with him. To be quiet with him, to stare off into space at parties with him, to get drunk and read bad poetry with him.

I am here with him now, and I am wanting.

Well, sod it.

I throw down my quill and toss my hair before marching over to his side of the table.

"Hi."

Severus snorts and lays his quill down carefully. His eyes are like pools. I want to wade in them, let him strip off my clothes one by one until I can sink into them. "Hello, you."

Oh – _hello to you too, scrumptious man._

"What are you reading about?" I flop down in the chair next to his and purposefully let our thighs touch for a delicious fraction of a second. From this angle, it's obvious that he forgot to shave this morning. There are short, tiny hairs on his cheeks that make him look like a dangerous son of a gun. If I get my way, I'll ask him to let it grow out once in a while – I bite my lip and tilt my head while wondering what it'd feel like if he rubbed his coarse, stubbly cheek on my belly.

"Are you having trouble?" he asks politely, turning his chair so it faces me. He is in teacher mode now, with his legs crossed and a small frown of concentration on his forehead. This is bliss.

"No, not at all. I just thought we could…" I break off and screw up my nose, reacting to how he's looking at me as if I've a few less sheep in the top paddock than he originally thought. "What?" I half-whine, crossing my arms. "Can't co-workers talk from time to time?"

"Talk?" He covers his mouth but I'm not fooled; the edges of his mouth are curved into a wicked looking grin. "You want to talk?"

"I do."

"We're being paid to work, not chat."

"I know," I say in a sing-song voice. "Don't you want to talk with me?" I'm baiting him, smirking like I'm trying to win him into my bed. I suppose that I am.

"I'm not sure. What are your objectives with the conversation?"

"Oooh!" I growl and giggle when he leans an elbow on the table with an attractive sideways gleam. "You're a trying man. Utterly impossible."

"Indeed."

"All right. What are you getting me for Christmas?"

He's dumbfounded. At once he almost blanches whiter than he is – quite a feat – and he stammers something unintelligible. "Are we doing gifts? We've never done gifts."

"Well, that was before…"

"Before what?"

 _Yes, before what Hermione? You bloody idiot._

"Before, erm… before our joint acceptance to a Christmas party! We're going together, aren't we?"

"No… I thought we were invited separately and agreed separately, and hence are arriving separately?"

"Christ. Can you say separately one more time?"

"Seeehhp-ahhhh-rately."

Naughty, naughty man. I wonder if he likes being spanked…

I wink, throwing him off guard. "I'm going alone. Isn't this the moment that you become chivalrous and say that you'll escort the fair lady to save her from the dangers of a dark and lonely night?"

"That's assuming that I'm the valiant knight," he hurls back, swiping one thin, long finger across his forehead to move stray locks out of the way. He looks like an appetiser like this; all black hair and pale skin, strong limbs and thin lips. I want to eat him. It's not helped by the fact that he's taken off his frock coat.

"Oh, I think you could be," I say, trying to be mysterious. "Give it a go."

He shrugs. "I'd rather not." Then he adds snidely, "And I suppose that you are getting _me_ something?"

For a former spy, he really has to up his game.

I twinkle, sure that my eyes are rivalling Dumbledore's. "I've already got it." Severus sucks in a breath and I soldier on with a prim little sniff. "It's under my Christmas tree at home. But I'll chuck it out the window if you don't get me anything. Just thought you should know."

"Are you sure you won't set it on fire? I seem to remember you as a bit of a pyro."

Ignoring the overt reference to my time as a law-breaking first year, I tap my fingers on the table. "Want a cuppa?"

"No."

I am undeterred. "Coffee?"

"No."

"Hmm. Chocolate?"

"Dark or white?"

"You're underestimating my desire for good company," I say brazenly. Should I bat my lashes at this point? I haven't quite grasped the finer details of luring a man into one's bed, and the fact that I suspect that I might be in love with this particular grouch leaves me even more unsure.

Severus' eyes seem to drift away, though he holds my gaze. He is no longer with me, no longer believing whatever it is that I am saying and not saying. I have struck out. In an effort to change direction, I summon some bars of solid white chocolate anyway and offer one to him, palm up. His long fingers pluck it out of my hand; somehow they still manage to graze my skin. When I look up at him, I know that I am flushed and out of breath. Even this simple contact is enough to make something in my belly turn over. In this sweet, simple silence, I hear myself blurting out something, lulled into honesty by the mouth-watering scent that I can finally smell.

"I trained in Muscat."

"I know," he says gently, breaking off a square of chocolate and chewing it with a strange, thoughtful half-smile on his lips. He is so close that I can see flecks of grey within those beautiful, obsidian eyes. He looks like he's holding onto a secret… I find myself hoping more than anything that it really is for me, this secret. I want to hold it in the palm of my hands and unwrap it slowly, peel the layers of deliberation and uncertainty away until he knows that I will keep his secret safe, nestled next to my heart.

"And I… I…" I swallow, and plunge on ahead. "There are these frankincense trees there; the Mistress I studied under used to take me to the non-Magical ones every now and then, to cleanse the palate, so to speak." Magical frankincense trees carry the same scent, but instead of carefully extracting the sap, it glides out of the fragile branches in small, shining drops that I used to let sit on my tongue until my entire mouth and sense of smell was overtaken by the sensuous oil.

He is watching me, more interested than I thought he would be. I remember that he would know my history – I began to work here before he did, but the twins passed him my credentials so he'd know who he was sharing a lab with. I'm not at his level – I never will be, given the two decades that separate us – but there are mountains of cheap Muggle paper in my apartment that can attest to the fact that one day, I _will_ be a Mistress in my own right. I am chasing that elusive potion, the one all Masters in our field must create. I'll get it one day. I'm sitting a few inches away from the founder of Pepper-Up, after all.

Severus' interest seems more than just professional, though… I don't think I'm fooling myself when I notice how he's leaning forward ever so slightly, his black eyes sometimes darting to my mouth as I tell him about the history of the Muggle frankincense trees, how they founded cities and crossed countless borders on trade routes designed especially for them.

"But…" I almost lose my confidence at this point, and he exhales just enough to show me that he's hanging onto my every word. I am on tenterhooks but I _must_ say it, because he smells like… like…

"I remember visiting her mother once; she took me to a women's gathering. I haven't been that nervous for years… they were all so beautiful. They looked like cats," I muse, running my finger around the rim of my tea cup that Severus has placed silently in front of me. "Like elegant cats. I've never seen women more beautiful."

"Oh?" He looks like he wants to disagree; I'm not sure why.

"Mmm," I murmur. "And they painted my hands and feet with henna, and plied me with tea so sweet that it was like a delicacy in itself. And… and then when it was time to go, the younger girls brought around these… these… burners, I'd call them. As big as-" I break off and reach forward without thinking to grab his hand. His breath hitches, echoing the way I too have forgotten how to breathe in and out. Looking away from his eyes that now seem to carry their own iron brand of heat, I place my hand on top of his to show how my smaller fingers barely each his first knuckles. "They were as big as your hands. Wooden, most of them, with these brilliant designs carved onto them. The Magical ones had moving designs on them, flowers that just kept opening and closing, opening and closing. It was… entrancing."

He is so quiet that I can hear him swallow when my fingers curl into the gaps between his. His skin feels warm; hot, even. I had imagined that he would be cold, but he is far from it.

"And they burned the frankincense in them; there wasn't a lot of smoke… just enough to… to…" I pause and lift my free hand into the air and make an elegant wave back and forth through the air. He does not look away from the gesture. "Just enough to wave the smoke under their scarves or onto their hair. I left and I… I felt like I was beautiful, too."

This is so very dangerous. Speaking such words to him as if we have the sort of relationship that allows this sort of thing… we do not. Not generally. We tease and bait, circle each other and maybe even flirt a bit, but still he remains a mystery to me. It is a fantasy that I, too, have become a figure with feminine secrets, though he often says that he can read me like a book.

But this… these are new waters. I am wading into them with jeans pushed up to my knees. I am turning back to him with a hand extended; I want him to join me. I want to know him; I want him to know me.

"What does your tattoo mean?" I ask shyly, tracing a fingernail over the curved lines.

"You really should know," he deadpans, then sounds out every individual letter for me. Smart-arse. I still don't understand and when I mention it, he merely shrugs as if I have to learn what it means the hard way.

Severus does not speak for a long while. Instead he looks at our two hands that are still joined. Carefully, painstakingly and ever so gently, he drags his thumb over my skin. Thrice I watch this odd little dance of our hands, until he clears his throat and takes back his hand, folding both elegantly together.

I feel the loss. The keen ache has a presence; a weighted ghost.

I move around the table and throw myself back into my research. We do not speak.

X

At the end of the day, he stands and waits for me to gather my things. We walk down the stairs together and then trudge into the snow. Again Severus tuts and rewraps my scarf but tonight his hands brush against my bare neck and cheeks as he winds it around. He is concentrating so much on the task that he's almost scowling, but I know better – by the time he finishes, my smile lights up the freezing night.

"Goodnight, Severus," I say softly, willing him to kiss me. He doesn't, of course.

"Goodnight, Hermione," he returns with a dip of his head. He begins to turn away from me but swivels back almost immediately. The atmosphere between us is awkward, but endearing. I feel like we are two shy teenagers parting after a first date.

"Yes?" I prompt, taking in this sight of this normally reserved man looking down at me, his brows drawn together as if he cannot decipher a puzzle. I smile, and his frown melts away; he blushes, looks away, and then his black eyes find mine again. They are burning and I finally recognise what the truth really is: longing. It is longing. I long for him, for Severus.

"I think you are…" His boots scuff on the snow and he draws his fine, black woollen cloak closer around his body. Snow is falling, and on a whim I reach out and rest my index finger on the tops of his hair where a few particles have settled. I cannot help myself; I bring the wetness to my mouth and taste it. He gives a sharp sound, almost as if he is in pain, but when I look at him his eyes are half lidded and trained on my mouth.

Shy all of a sudden, I avert my gaze until I have memorised the subtle patterns on the buttons of his robes. A warm hand cups my chin and prods; I look at him again, lost in his stare.

"You _are_ beautiful," Severus mumbles, his words carrying the surety of what he believes to be the truth. I am struck by it, by this truth; to him, I _am_ beautiful.

"Oh," I whisper, stunned and elated and in love. "Oh… Oh!"

He ducks his head and chuckles. "Goodnight."

'Not now!' I want to shout. 'Don't leave!' But I only offer a breathless, "G-goodnight." I can only hope that he understands that I cannot form words or flowery phrases because my heart has dropped out of my chest and wormed its way under his cloak and robes to situate itself in the pocket of his frock coat.

"And… Hermione?"

"Yes?" I can barely speak.

"Savour." He utters the word but it comes out in all its glory, speaking of decadent delights and satisfying sex. My belly flips.

"Savour?" Try as I might, I don't quite understand but then – "Oh!" My eyes dart to his hands. "Your tattoo! Of course." I put a hand to my forehead and rap my knuckles on it slightly. "Silly me. I should have known."

His expression barely changes, but when he really does leave there is this faint smile on his face. There is a smugness there, too – a satisfying gleam, like he's discovered something important.

I watch as he walks away before he disappears and when I stroll back to my flat, I stick out my tongue and let the snow fall onto it.

I dare to think that he might have discovered _me._


	5. Chapter 5

_Behold my favourite chapter in this little story, dedicated to the very real Father Graham!_

* * *

 **Chapter 5**

And maybe I'm too young to keep good love from going wrong,

But tonight you're on my mind, so you never know.

 _Jeff Buckley_

* * *

 **Thursday**

Severus isn't here today. I marched in with my prettiest deep blue blouse and my hair carefully arranged, only to remember that once a month he toddles off to wherever he goes to get our ingredients. Not the bog standard ones that we order from Slug & Jiggers up the road; no, these are special, ones that he doesn't trust anyone else to get.

He'll work from morning 'til night, and won't be in tomorrow either. That means that it's just me from now until… I grumble, ticked off because I won't see him until the party on Christmas Eve unless he drags himself out of bed tomorrow in order to come in. I doubt he will, but I find myself hoping all the same.

With careful precision, I measure out the ingredients that I am working with today. Every few minutes I open the vial of Amortentia and breathe in the beauty of the lover I do not have. I'm so lonely that I'm tempted to actually drink it but I'm too vain; I don't want to look sickly for when he does actually return. Plus he would toss me into the Thames if he thought I was interested in him because of the actual potion.

The thought makes my hand pause as I chop – what will he think, when he finally finds out? Will he believe me, that I truly haven't sipped any, not even one tiny bit? But I suppose I can counter that with: what has _he_ been doing? How has he created all of these scents that I adore so much?

In the afternoon, I meander downstairs and dawdle around the shop, chatting to the twins. Harry stops by to walk me home, and his smile is enough to drag me out of my misery and back into the nervous excitement that always rolls around for Christmas.

I make a dinner of creamy pasta for one. It has the consistency of glue.

X

 **Friday**

"Are you bringing someone?"

"Noooo," I groan. "I'm not bringing anyone. I've told you a million times, Ron!"

His voice is faint on the telephone but if I tell him, he'll shout into it and deafen me before work. "All right, all right. But I don't want you coming on your own, 'Mione! It's Christmas! Let me pick you up."

I decline him with a grumbling, "Bugger off. I've got one cat, not forty. I can get myself to a party and back!"

"Yeah, but…"

"Look," I say while pulling on my trousers, "you're already going with Lavender. Don't you think she'll be annoyed if-"

"It was her idea!"

"Oh. Right. So everyone thinks I'm an old spinster, do they? You can all piss off!" I rave – is eight thirty in the morning too early for wine? "I'll have you know that I'm _half-seeing_ someone, all right?!"

"Half seeing?" His voice has that funny lilt to it; I just know he's cocking his head to the side with that puzzled, befuddled look on his face. "What do you mean, 'half seeing'?"

"Isn't it obvious? I'm sort of seeing someone. I am, and I'm not! God, it's not rocket science."

"Eh?"

"Nothing."

"Oh…" Bugger. Now he's thinking about something. I can hear the bloody wheels turning from here. "Is it… are you seeing… I mean, you're being all secretive, so… are you bringing a _girl?_ "

 _Christ – that's all they think about isn't it? If I'm single then I must be a lesbian. Thank you, Ron. And thank you, men and old biddies of the world that have encouraged this idea!_ I'm tempted to tell Ron that I'd rather snog a girl than _him_ again, but we got over our failed fling years ago and there's no use beating a dead Weasley.

"Don't sound so excited, you dirty perve."

Ron rumbles something; I just know he's disappointed.

"Look," I say, holding out a hand as if he's really here and not in Sweden for some mind-numbingly boring Auror conference thing, "It's new, all right? It's new and I'm not really sure what's going on, but I think something _will_ go on…"

He tries to get the identity of the mystery man out of me for a while, but I evade him until I'm almost late again.

"Gotta go, Ronnikins!" I trill, waiting to hear his farewell.

"Righto. Love you. And… you sure it's not a girl?"

Oh, good _lord!_

"Feck off, Ron. Bye."

X

I end up having to run down the street to the lab. Skeeter snaps me mid-stride with my breasts in the midst of almost hitting my chin and I offer her a very Severus greeting of a two fingered salute. Smarmy cow.

"You've got a bee in your bonnet," Fred says as soon as I enter via the main front doors. He looks at my glowering, beet red face and winces. "Shit. Sorry. Skeeter got you again, didn't she?"

I mumble something under my breath but it feels like it's all too much. "Dunno," I eventually manage to whisper as I stare at the floor, willing tears not to fall.

"Oh, poppet," George says wickedly, "you poor little thing. Don't worry. Uncle George and Uncle Fred will send her something real nice –"

"I've got just the thing!" Fred chimes in with.

"And it'll make you grin!" George declares as he jumps up on the counter with his arms spread wide, like a nutter on the stage during the opera. I manage a little snicker; they always indulge me too much.

"Skeeter'll be minus a tit-"

"And she'll get in a snit-"

"…And I will make sure it sticks."

There is a round of applause coming from behind me – some of the customers do have a sense of humour – but I only have eyes for the tall, black haired man staring fondly at me from the front door. He's bundled up in deference to the weather, and I want to slide inside his cloak and stay in there with him. The rhyme was quite ridiculous, but from the glistening humour in his eyes, it's obvious that he knows.

"That was a piss-poor effort at rhyming, mate, but I'll forgive you on account of it being the first time you've tried it," Fred says, but there's a devilish glint in his eyes. "We were only going to leave the witch with one for a week. You want her to walk around with one tit for the rest of her miserable life?"

"Oh, I don't know," Severus says quietly; his eyes haven't left mine. He walks into the shop; the twins are looking at us with matching expressions of intrigue. "How long should it last for, Hermione?" My name comes out like a sinful purr.

I swallow and find that a little smile has made its way onto my lips. "Just enough to… just enough to make her stop," I whisper, staring up at him when he comes to a stop in front of me. He's so tall; he fills my vision. All I can see are black eyes and alabaster skin that's so smooth it is begging to be touched. Mortified, I realise that there are tear tracks on my cheeks. I feel like a stupid little student again, but he brings his thumb to my face and wipes each line, the soft pad of it moving back and forth on my skin. I stand as if stunned when he brings his thumb to his mouth and tastes the salty moisture. I cannot breathe.

"She won't stop," he counsels me in a low, pained tone.

"I know," I reply, as calmly as possible.

"Then how long…?"

Everyone is watching this little tableau but neither of us breaks away from the other. He is still staring down at me and I am still wide-eyed, looking back at him with a secure little smile.

"A week," I reply in the end. "A week will do."

"Will it?" he presses, ending the spell between us as he moves a small way away.

Somehow, courage blooms within me. I don't know if it's the constant smelling of the Amortentia, or whether it is something new that is reacting to the absolute safety that is represented by the most powerful wizard – yes, _the most powerful_ – wizard currently alive in Britain today who is ready to go into battle just to stop some old harpy from upsetting me.

Oh god, I am head over heels.

I am so in love with Severus that it's astounding that I haven't caught on before.

"I'll be all right," I say firmly, nodding my head. "I've got you, after all, don't I?" What possessed me to declare such a thing? I'll never know, but I'm thankful for whatever it was.

Fred and George are spluttering and stammering behind us, and the rest of the customers are gawking and whispering to each other. Severus looks at me like I have two heads, and then his smile splits into a wolfish little grin that I've never seen before and instantly want to see again.

"Yes," he rumbles, "you have me." I give a little gasp of pleasure at this, then a gurgle of laughter that makes me want to dance around the shop. He rolls his eyes and offers me an elbow. "Now get to work. You're late."

The rest of the day flies by quickly. We dance around each other, and I take in the scent of the cinnamon smoke on his deep black robes. Cinnamon smoke. The scent is so complex that I'm initially dumbfounded – however did he manage that? One creates it by burning cinnamon sticks on an open fire, of course, but the balance between spice and flame is crucial, and using cinnamon in this way is not exactly cheap.

In turn, I have absolutely no idea how on earth I came to love the scent. I suspect that it came from a Christmas Eve many years ago at our local church when I was a child; we had a priest that was a bit of a barmy old sod. Now I'm sure that he was just going senile, but back then I had a fondness for the man that used to play around with the incense that would be swung around during the procession up and down the aisle. One year he burnt dried rose petals, which worked, and another year was orange peels, which certainly did _not_ work.

But there was one year when I was about seven that I went with mum and dad, dressed in a pea green coat and smart little shoes (I nicknamed them my 'disco shoes' – quite a feat given my substantial lisp at the time). I remember thinking that it was the most beautiful service I'd ever seen; a few new families had moved into our little area at the edge of town and the church was packed. Everyone was singing, everyone was smiling. And all the while I could smell the sticks of cinnamon that Father Graham had decided he'd try.

A few girls had coughing fits, but me? Oh, I adored it. I loved it. To this day, I love the smell though I cannot recreate it without setting off the smoke detection charms in my flat, so I do not often try.

And now Severus is walking around the lab, smelling like everything that was good about my childhood.

We part at the end of the day with knowing smiles; there has been a shift in our relationship, though we have no name for it.

"Night," I say breathlessly, tingling with anticipation.

"Night," he purrs, reaching down to brush fallen snow out of my hair. I beam at him, and when he doesn't kiss me or mumble sweet things, I don't even care because I _love_ this man.

"See you tomorrow – at the party?"

Severus makes a grunt to confirm his attendance, cocking an eyebrow as if to say: 'Only for you, you impertinent little witch.'

This time I walk away first. I stroll down the street with a giddy little smile.

When I reach the corner where my flat is, I turn and search for him.

He's there, still standing in the snow, watching me with an expression that I can't read from here.

I offer him a small wave of my hand and when he returns it, I sigh with the pleasure of it all and walk inside in a daze.


	6. Chapter 6

_Enjoy a boatload of fluff! Answers to Severus' scent to follow in the epilogue._

* * *

 **Chapter 6**

Oh lighthouse man, I'm all at sea

Shine a little lighthouse light on me.

 _The Waifs_

* * *

 **Saturday**

Attempting to discover an individual scent amongst this bedlam is a Herculean feat. Ginny has outdone (or over done) herself; there are pine cones all over the place, different coloured candles on almost every surface and if I hear one more ornament on the multitude of trees around here burst into a carol, I'll blast it like Severus' rose bushes.

Harry adores it. He's standing in front of the sitting room, eyes on the ceiling that Ginny's enchanted to resemble snowfall. It took her a fortnight to learn the wand movements and it's just as well she did, or else Severus would've tossed her out of a window. He wasn't very patient with teaching her.

Harry moves around slowly, closing his eyes at times, as he drinks in the physical reminders of just how loved he is by those that matter to him. He catches my eye and grins, though Teddy's hanging onto his leg so there's no chance of me getting the bear hugs that always mend my heart.

I can hear Ron bounding up and down the stairs as he carts gifts around to various rooms – we're doing a scavenger hunt this year – and there are shrieks of laughter coming from the kitchen where the girls have gotten into the wine early. The children are around somewhere, with Fred or George most likely. Percy had twins two years ago and those little boys will put their uncles out of business in the future, and Bill and Fleur's beautiful offspring will float around the room when the presents are announced.

I used to feel awkward at Grimmauld Place when the children started coming into the world. Not now, though. There's a blooming sense of anticipation in my stomach and when I bend down and throw my arms around Teddy, I wonder if one day I might hold my own gangly little boy, whisper secrets in his ear and hold his hand while we walk down the street.

When Teddy runs off to Remus (who is on his hands and knees as he carts around his youngest while neighing quite convincingly), I stand in the doorway, taking it all in. It's magical – it's everything I need at this time of year. I don't even want to close the door; it's Christmas Eve after all, the night that I love snow and the freezing chill that seeps into my bones.

Severus isn't here yet – he wouldn't show up this early. After filling up my virtual cup with this perfect example of peace, I close the door and let Kreacher take my cloak, coat and other extra knitted items (of which there are many) until I am left in a red velvet wraparound dress. I give a little toss of my head to fluff up the wild curls that I've been proud of for a good few years now and make my way into the kitchen.

"You look good enough to eat!" Lavender proclaims after our standard kisses and half hugs. "Just like the cake!"

Molly's no better. "Oh my," she titters, looking me up and down. "Who's _that_ for?"

I'm about to launch into my speech of being an independent woman, but Fleur nips it all in the bud with a, "Why, eet's for 'erself, of course!"

Molly nods her head approvingly. "Good girl. It's about time you stopped hiding your lovely figure." I almost trip over my black heels at that, but Ginny's been working on her mum for years and the effort is starting to pay off. Still, I do growl for good measure when the Weasley matriarch whispers into my ear, "You know Severus is coming this year. He always cleans up so well for parties. Like you, dear."

"Oh, Molly," Lavender scolds with a curl of her lip. "Hermione always looks beautiful. And Professor Snape always looks…" She turns to the rest of the girls at the table. "A little help?" she says wickedly, and Ginny (and her burgeoning belly), Fleur, Percy's wife Audrey and Angelina all give sighs of delight.

"Scrumptious?" Fleur tries, and I give a little groan of faux humiliation before sinking into my seat.

"Arresting!" says Audrey.

"Tantalising!" puts in Angelina.

"No, no," Ginny says, "I've got it. _Dark!"_

Molly rolls her eyes and flaps a dish towel at the birds cackling at the table. "Dark, Ginny? Really?"

"Yes," Ginny says firmly, tapping a finger to her cheek while her eyes narrow as she examines me. I scowl and dare her silently to give it a go, come on, try me – I'm at my best. I'm in love and if she even dares to criticise my man I'll-

"There's no better match," she whispers to me, "he's dark enough to show your light. He's perfect for you, Hermione."

There are tears in my eyes but I don't know how or why. I look down at the surface of the wooden table and reach out blindly – Ginny thinks I'm looking for her hand but I really want a pastry. After getting a good bite out of the chocolate éclair, I shake my head.

"You're all barmy," I announce, using my pinkie to catch a stray bit of chocolate from the corner of my mouth. The girls all sigh with disappointment; even Molly pouts at my apparent dismissal of the man. I stand and brush my hands over my dress, making sure it falls as it should. Ensuring that no one is able to hear from the other side of the door, I allow a wink to escape. "There's no one who knows all of that better than I."

I exit the room to cheers and giddy laughter.

X

I duck into the loo to check my reflection in the mirror and take care of the required bodily functions. My hair is a mess and I fluff it up a bit more with a quiet little giggle of triumph. I've scrubbed up well. Contrary to ten years ago, I haven't chosen the red for my old House; it means nothing now. But rather this is Christmas, and I want to remember the first year that I really went all out for a man. Why? Because I think he'll be doing the same. Somewhere, whether it's on the street outside or in Cokeworth, there's a beautiful black-haired man who's eyeing his clothes and fidgeting with the endless buttons, smirking at himself in the mirror as he gets himself ready to dazzle me.

X

The music starts when I descend the stairs and I'm almost bowled over by kids running down around me.

"Hello, Aunty 'Mione!" one shouts, passing me too quickly to pin them down and work out which Weasley twin it is. I settle for trilling, "Happy Christmas, darling!" instead of anything particularly identifying.

I make my way to the main sitting room. It was magically enlarged years ago and it fits all of the bodies who are talking to each other, crying out happy greetings and exchanging loving embraces. I stand on the last step for a while, craning my neck to see if I can see his inky black hair but Minerva's hat with a worryingly realistic looking miniature mouse on top blocks my view.

 _All right,_ I counsel myself. _You can do it. Time to make your move._

I look down at my shoes and take a deep breath in.

I do not see him when he comes to me; it is only his voice that alerts me to his presence.

"May I escort you, Hermione?"

X

My eyes traverse his figure from the ground up. Enclosed not in his normal dragon hide boots, his feet are covered by black dress shoes, and the trousers that cover his legs hint at the muscular thighs that I've dreamt about. A black leather belt with a subtle silver clasp catches my eye, before finally I take in the midnight button down shirt that only enhances his slim yet powerful chest. At first I think it is made of silk but there is no shine to it, only a hint of buttery softness.

He is wearing a suit jacket – not a Muggle one, no, this is more suave than a simple dinner coat. It looks almost militaristic with its collar and firm lines. It suits him. I like it. I like it ever so much.

By the time I manage to look him in the eye, my mouth is dry and a blush has bloomed on my cheeks and neck.

Severus is stunning. He's watching me with a gleam of amusement in his black eyes and his thin lips are quirked into a hint of a smirk, the one where his mouth tilts to the right. His hand is extended to me, the other is folded behind his back like chivalrous men of old. The long black hair that hangs like silk from his head has been carefully pulled into a tie at the nape of his neck; for once, his face is open to me.

I am so very lost.

"May I escort you?" he repeats, voice barely above a whisper. I can see Harry and Ginny arm in arm standing near us, Harry beaming as if he might burst and Ginny looking like the cat that got the full fat cream.

My voice has gone. The man that I love has bundled it up and tucked it somewhere that I suspect it will stay.

I stare at him for a long while, content with just looking at this man who has come and declared for me, in front of all of these people – our people. We are safe here, ensconced within our crowd. These are the people that matter for us both, and these are the people that he has decided will see this very public claiming.

I want him to claim me. I want it more than anything.

I bite my lip then press my lips together but it is of no use. I smile widely, catlike and happy, and in turn his smirk widens into a grin.

Severus bows his head a little and cocks an eyebrow, giving a pointed look down to his hand that is still outstretched.

"Oh! Right!" I say, and suddenly there is laughter all around us as I all but jump down the last step and put my hand in his. I could not be more eager.

X

His scent is intoxicating. I can't pin it down, but when he bends down to murmur a hushed greeting in my ear, I close my eyes and breathe it in: the Amortentia!

"Oh," I breathe, half in awe and half in relief. "It's…" _New parchment, cloves, frankincense, cinnamon smoke!_

We are standing near the fireplace, towards the shadows. The children have started searching for the gifts, and the adults are milling around in different groups. It's so obvious now, but they must think they're being so very clever by drifting away from us to give us something that resembles privacy.

"It's what?" he purrs, his warm breath tickling the shell of my ear. He smooths a curl over my shoulder; his hand lingers at the nape of my neck. I can hear how his breath hitches, and he doesn't remove his hand. I arch into his touch, conveying what I cannot say in words.

"You… you…" I am lost in his eyes. "You smell like Amortentia."

I have been imagining this moment – this moment where I confess that I have smelt it recently, when I tell him that I have brewed it, that I have disobeyed the stringent guidelines of love potions and have been bringing vials into work with me. Surely he will step away from me, his face hard and his eyes like granite? Surely he will wash his hands of me, never believing that my feelings could be true?

There is a hint of wariness in his eyes, this is true, but there is something else there that I do not recognise. I hold my breath, my mouth parched from confessing my transgression.

"You brewed Amortentia?" he asks in a low voice as he tilts his head. He steps closer; our bodies are so close that I could close the distance and press myself against him. Instead I can only stare up at him as I nod dumbly.

"Why?"

The question takes me off guard.

"Why?" I repeat, furrowing my brow. "Well, er… I…"

"Out with it, woman," he orders me teasingly, his eyes trained on my lips. "Did you brew it for a mystery man? Did you want to smell the scent of…" He looks away then back at me. His tone is almost lazy, nigh on languid. "Did you want to smell someone in particular?" Then, "What did you smell? _Who_ did you smell, little witch?"

I shake my head to the endless questions. "Why do you want to know?"

"Oh, I think you know why," he returns simply. "Tell me, Hermione. Who did you brew it for?" His baritone voice creeps down my spine and I shiver.

I finally gather my wits. "Nobody," I say daringly, letting my eyes mark a trail of fire from his obsidian orbs to his lips. "Nobody."

"I see," he says silkily. " _A_ nobody?"

To drag this on would be delicious; titillating; wonderful. But all of a sudden, I do not have the energy for it. I am impatient – he is so close and all I want is to put my hands on him.

I do just that.

I lay my hands flat on his chest and allow the tips of my fingers to curl into the smooth rich fabric. His heart is beating out a tattoo under my touch, and I watch, mesmerised, as his tongue darts out to wet his lips. The immediate understanding that he wants me just as badly as I want him is intoxicating.

My hands slide up his chest and curve around his neck, finally encountering skin. I push myself up on my toes. He is smiling, a smile of delight, of anticipation.

"Who?" he demands, voice hoarse and strained. "I must know. _Please_ , Hermione."

"Silly, oblivious man," I chide, giving a little click of my tongue. For the first time, I rest my palm on his cheek. He leans into my hand; his eyelids flutter and he sighs. "Who else could it possibly be? Who else, other than _you?_ "

The smile he gifts me with as his eyes open wide is beautiful. I am taken in by it, wrapped within it. It is heat and gentle warmth, lust and low, loving desire. I smile back at him, aware that mine is a beam of a kind of happiness that I do not think I have ever felt.

"Well," he says finally, snorting out a quick laugh, "there's that, then."

I hum in agreement as he hesitantly draws his hands around my waist and rests his forehead against mine. My hands link themselves around his neck and pull him closer until our cheeks are pressed together.

"Yes," I whisper. "There's that, then."

Neither of us notice the mistletoe that Fred has charmed to hover above our heads; it is not needed. Somehow his mouth finds mine and he kisses me softly, just a quick chaste press. I return it willingly, breathless as I discover the taste of his mouth, of his tongue when it slips inside as he takes advantage of my gasp of rapture when he pulls me firmly to him.

Throats clear in the distance and we step away quickly, hands over our mouths as we exchange impish grins. We've forgotten about the children still moving around the room; of course we have.


	7. Chapter 7

**Epilogue**

Your love taught me,

How to love you in all things.

 _Nizar Qabbani_

* * *

 **Sunday**

Christmas Day is enchanting.

I wake Severus early, bouncing onto the bed and into his arms, burrowing my nose into his neck and taking a deep breath in of the intoxicating scent that clings to his skin. He groans and twists his body around until his arms are clamped around my naked body, the possessive touch sending a thrill to my belly.

His erection makes itself known as he pushes against me, mumbling nonsense into my hair.

"Well, good _morning,_ " I drawl, wriggling my hips with a giggle. "Someone's excited for Christmas."

"Not for Christmas," he growls, and reaches around to pointedly cup my breasts. "Is it time for my first present?"

"Cheeky sod." I twist in his arms and place a kiss to his nose. "Come on!"

We manage to drag ourselves out of bed and sit under our Christmas tree naked as the day we were born. It has become a tradition of sorts – last year, the Christmas after we finally got together, he hadn't anticipated anything (or so he says) and had no clean clothes to wear, and I found that I couldn't stop attempting to take advantage of his nakedness. Hence, our second Christmas in my flat that we now share is celebrated in much the same way.

"What have you got me?" Severus shakes the first of many boxes, bringing it to his ear with narrowed eyes. I love this man, but I especially love him at Christmas; the excitement he shows for both giving and receiving is truly amusing.

"Oh, you might recognise it." I bite my lip and watch as he tears off the shiny blue wrapping paper – Muggle, as he's always had a hilarious time of removing sticky tape – to a nondescript looking black box inside.

"You didn't," he grumbles, affecting indignation.

I giggle and jump into his lap, unmindful of the rest of the gifts on the floor that I've pushed aside to get to him. "I did! Can you believe it took me so long to figure it out?"

He removes the perfume from the box and shakes his head. "Your head was in the clouds."

"Still. It was a very romantic gesture, you know. I wish you'd have done it before."

Severus looks at the bottle; it is a magical concoction, designed to make the object of the wearer's desire smell their most treasured scents. It only works if the person returns their affections, which is how Severus decided to wear it in the first place just over a year ago now. It broke down the scents that I always smell now whenever I breathe in Amortentia – conveniently, the singular notes distracted me from piecing them all together. Not that I knew that; the poor sod had been wearing the perfume for two months before I'd even gotten close enough for the first whiff.

"I wasn't sure if it'd work," he mutters eventually, a blush creeping onto his cheeks. "You were awfully good at hiding it."

"I thought you'd never want someone like me," I say, shrugging. "But it would've worked. It would've worked from the first day you walked into the lab."

He puts the bottle down and draws his arms around me, pushing my hair back so he can kiss my cheek. "How could you ever think such a thing? Silly little witch," he purrs, his fingers drawing lines on my back.

* * *

 **Friday**

I slip out the door and close it with a gentle click. Trying hard to be as quiet as a mouse, I tiptoe away from my bedroom and into the tiny kitchen. One glass of water later and I make my way out of the flat and down the stairs before stepping out into the crisp morning air. My mission is simple: make it to the bakery on the corner and back before the delectable, dishevelled man sprawled across my bed wakes.

The shop is decorated from floor to ceiling; a large tree has been set up in the corner. Next week, it will be the third Christmas that I shall have the good fortune to wake beside Severus. There is a pleasant ache between my thighs as I pay for the warm and crispy chocolate filled croissants. When I reach out to accept the tiny silver coins in change, the small diamond on my left hand catches the light.

"Pretty," the portly shop witch comments, giving me a cheeky grin. I shrug and bite my lip. "He did well," she continues. "How long has it been now anyway? I thought you'd have given me a little one to coo over by now."

I glance down at the ring. "We've only been engaged for a year, Molly. There's no rush."

The Weasley matriarch shrugs her shoulders and shoves another two croissants in the paper bag. "On the house. To fatten him up."

"If we knew you were going to be this nosy," I say, "we never would've invested in the bakery in the first place!"

"Tosh!" Molly sniffs. I mimic her and grin; we have repeated this charade for the last six months. "And when are you moving out of that flat?"

"I told you yesterday," I counter with a wagging finger. "As soon as we find a place that we like. Moving to the country isn't exactly affordable, you know. When we find something in our price range that's got enough land for Severus to think he's in the middle of nowhere, we'll buy it."

"Yes, well, it'd be all right if you took up that land next to ours-"

"Severus would burn your house down within a month, you know that."

"Ah, quite true," Molly says pensively. "Well, you know…"

My ears perk up. If I had a tail, it'd be wagging. "Do I know what?"

She screws her mouth up and taps her nose. "There's a cousin of a very distant relation of Arthur's…"

* * *

 **Thursday**

"This was worth the twelve months we saved to buy it. I don't care how many hours of overtime we had to do," Severus declares as we look up at the newly restored cottage.

"It's _perfect,_ " I mumble hoarsely, mortified that I've begun to cry.

"Hush now," my husband says, drawing an arm around me as he chuckles. "Is it always going to be like this?"

I give him an indignant harrumph. "I don't know, do I? I haven't-"

"I haven't been pregnant before," he says, imitating my higher, sharper voice to a T. "I know, love. Neither have I, remember?"

"Psch. You're always so snarky in the mornings," I answer, accepting a smack of a kiss to my cheek with a giggle. "Come on – let's go in!"

Severus pats my belly and offers me his arm, smirking as I give a little squeal and all but run to our new home.

The cottage is beautiful; white walls, a slate roof, a gravel driveway. It looks like the ones we fell in love with in Kilmore when we first visited Ireland a year and a half ago. There's no front fence because the land goes on for miles – or rather, we're on a slope that makes it look like that. There are tyre tracks that lead up to the driveway, a relic from one of Arthur Weasley's friend's second cousin's niece. Or something.

Our battered old green four-wheel drive is already parked out the front; Fred drove it up last week. I didn't ask how he even managed to organise it, because I really do not want to know how the naughty twin managed to get our car from England to Ireland without scratching it once. Cheeky sod.

We lower our voices when we enter. We've seen it before, of course – Severus oversaw a lot of the construction, and we drew up the plans together, but there's nothing quite like seeing it done and dusted.

The stone floors are warm under our feet, thanks to a clever charm of my husband's, and we remove our shoes to pad around, staring with mouths gaping reverently. The sneaky sod has been here already, I discover, as there's a Christmas tree with mismatched baubles standing proudly in the corner.

"Beautiful," I manage when we're standing in front of our new bed. The windows behind the dark wooden frame look out to rolling hills that will be covered with mist come morning.

"Yes, you are," Severus replies, easing the cardigan off of my shoulders. I turn my head to the side with a sigh as he places one open-mouthed kiss to my shoulder. "So very, very beautiful."

* * *

 **The End**

 _Merry Christmas!_


End file.
